A Contagious Joy

Unlike the New York Times, the Ashland Times-Gazette doesn’t have its own Arts Section or resident theater critic, so I’ll weigh in today from that corner of my world. No, I’m not entering the debate as to whether Moonlight or LaLa Land was the best film of 2016 (not sure I’d get the correct envelope anyway). Instead, some thoughts on Mary Poppins, performed last weekend by students from Ashland High School.

Our first year in Ashland, we climbed the steps to McDowell Auditorium to experience our first high school musical in Ashland. The immediate draw for us was that our youngest son, a newbie at AHS, was playing percussion in the pit band, but we were quickly mesmerized by the magic unfolding on the stage. “Damn Yankees” was followed by “Oliver!,” another wonder-filled performance. Now, ten years later, Larry and I double-dated with Dan and his wife Becky – how quickly the time passes.

We ended up with a quintet of theater-goers, as the lovely Madelyn Simone joined us for the evening. She attended her first musical (Cinderella) back in 2012, but it was not a successful visit to McDowell, as her spirited two-year-old self was more interested in kicking her light-up sneakers than watching the actors on stage. We departed at the intermission. Needless to say, I learned my lesson, and this year, I left her toddler sister with her parents. 

How fun it was to dress up for the evening. With her floral print dress, (borrowed) pearls, and a touch of blush, Madelyn was a gorgeous date for the night.

I encountered Mary Poppins for the first time when she appeared on the silver screen in 1964. My mom bought me a piano book containing the movie’s favorite songs, and I would sit for hours at the piano, painstakingly practicing the songs which were a couple of levels above my lesson book. But I kept at it, singing along to my favorites and aggravating my younger brother.

Until we saw the musical last weekend, I hadn’t realized the differences between the stage version and the Disney film. I missed the suffragette song that Mrs. Banks marches to in the movie, as well as the sleep-inducing “Stay Awake,” an example of reverse psychology from the inimitable Mary Poppins. But the inclusion of Miss Andrew, the formidable childhood nanny to Mr. Banks, was a brilliant addition to the stage narrative, and Julia Picking’s gait made her a true “holy terror.”.

I was glad that both the movie and the stage show included the poignant song, “Feed the Birds.” As I listened once again as Isobel Merkel (the Bird Woman) and Mikayla Myers (Mary Poppins) sang those familiar words, I thought about how the Bird Woman’s plight had stirred something within my childhood spirit, a compassion for a poor woman, a woman dependent on the kindness of others for her sustenance, who in turn sustained the life of her birds.

As I thought of the Bird Woman, I remembered a similar song from Oliver, as the young women sang of sweet red roses, of milk, of ripe strawberries. Again, in the midst of the joyful singing and dancing, the reminder is there to see beyond ourselves, to taste the ripe strawberries and to feed the birds.

As for the singing and dancing, we agree with Bert (Jackson Cleland) as he sang, “Ain’t it a glorious day?” for it was a glorious presentation. From Jane and Michael’s plea for a nanny with no warts to the energetic tap dance scenes, the show was performed with excellence and enthusiasm, what we’ve come to expect from AHS productions. As for Madelyn’s reaction to the night, she was entranced by the flying Mary Poppins, who soared higher than the “up to the highest heights” kites. “How did they do that, Nana?” “It’s the magic of the theater, Madelyn.”

Actor Chris Pine understands: “Musical theater is great; you get painted up, you get to play princesses and witches, and you sing. The joy alone of that can really carry a lot.” It’s a contagious joy, for as we left Archer Auditorium, our hearts echoed the words of the Four Seasons: “Oh what a night!” Bravo, AHS!

Interdependent

Living in Ohio, I thought I’d be safe writing about snow in the middle of February, but it’s been in the balmy sixties this week, so apologies for the bad timing of my intro. Growing up in the Buffalo area, I walked to school in the middle of winter with snowpants under my skirt (since girls had to wear skirts in the “good old days,” the snowpants were removed before entering the classroom). More than fifty years since that little girl made her way through the tunnel-like sidewalks, I still remember the riding sidewalk plow a city employee operated throughout the community. With no school buses, nearly all the children walked to school, headed home for lunch, and then returned for the afternoon session, so the safety of the sidewalks was a priority to our small city.

I’m not sure when the decision was made to eliminate that service to Tonawanda residents, but the mini-snowplow is no more in my hometown. It’s doubtful the decision-makers were swayed by Ralph Waldo Emerson’s words: “Let every man shovel out his own snow, and the whole city will be passable.” Instead, my guess is it revolved around budget.

But Emerson’s words do raise a basic question as to the role and responsibility of government, whether local, state or federal. Who should be responsible to shovel the sidewalks and the streets? Who should sweep the streets, repair the streets? Who should be responsible to keep people from living on the street? Who should protect our neighbors who don’t have enough income to live on? The children, the elderly? Who should keep watch over those who have murdered another? Who should educate our children?

What about education? I’m glad that here in the United States, the lovely Madelyn Simone can go to first grade in a public school without her parents making direct payments to the school for her education. When I met a Salvation Army colleague from Ghana a few years ago at an international conference, he faced a terrible decision. He had taken in his deceased brother’s children but didn’t have enough money to send his young children as well as his nephews to school. If he didn’t pay, they weren’t educated. I’m grateful I never had to make that choice.

Normally I don’t frequent a website called “cracked,” but I recently read a fascinating post that made a lot of sense to me. It compares our view of government based on whether the individual is a city dweller or a resident of a rural area. Loey Nunning understands: “In a city you realize interdependence and cooperation are not only the actual cornerstones of civilization, but also that they work amazingly well when governments are well-run and well-funded. Government becomes not some abstract boogeyman that wants to control every part of your life, but the reason you can take a hot shower every morning with clean water. Paying taxes isn’t government theft, it’s just doing your part to make sure the wheels of society keep turning.” I may not be especially pleased to write that check on April 15, but I understand the need for those dollars to be pooled together to provide services to all people.

Yet our founders understood that “taxation without representation” didn’t work. That’s why our government includes a “house of representatives” to listen to the people and make decisions in the best interests of the people. In today’s world, “the people” have a lot to say, and I for one am hoping for productive, respectful conversations in Ashland, in Columbus, and in Washington, about how to keep the wheels of society turning for all people.

Because as Nunning noted, we are interdependent. Yes, Mr. Emerson, we still may be able to clear our own sidewalks, but as I understood as a child, it makes sense for one person to shovel the snow for all of us, while another teaches our children, paves our roads, and protects our streets. Government then becomes the tool to coordinate these efforts. As such, the government’s continued responsiveness to the voices of all people enables us to cooperate efficiently and effectively in each other’s lives, thus “making our city passable.”

Not Wanted

Growing up in the Buffalo area fifty years ago, our family frequently crossed the border into a “foreign” country. We’d bake in the sand at Sherkston Beach, ride the harrowing Comet roller coaster and lick butterscotch suckers at Crystal Beach amusement park, and saunter up Clifton Hill at Niagara Falls, Ontario, begging to go into the wax museum. We were always warned to behave as we went through customs while the adults answered the typical “where were you born” question, but the border crossing was painless.

Entering the United States as an immigrant has not been quite as easy. I wish I had paid more attention to whatever information my mother had about her ancestors and their immigration narratives. What was it like for young Amelia to leave behind her German homeland, for a whole family to flee the Irish potato famine, or for the French-speaking Anna to sail into Ellis Island? We visited their tombstones often during my childhood, but I never asked how they came to America.

In light of the recent executive order on immigration, I think a lot about my immigrant ancestors as I pass their stern portraits each day. Were they economic refugees? Did they pass through Ellis Island? I wonder if they were frightened, if they were welcomed into their new home, their new country. Whatever their “coming to America” story was, they made their way, creating a home in America, working, raising children, and embracing grandchildren (my mother).

My curiosity led me to research Ellis Island, the major portal for immigration for sixty-four years. As potential immigrants moved toward the registry room at Ellis Island, they faced two forms of vetting. The first was medical: was the individual healthy enough to enter the United States? This test became known as the six-second medical exam, primarily one of observation to weed out disease or defect. Often, a dreaded button hook was used to raise the eyelid, as doctors looked for trachoma, an eye infection that led to blindness (a Japanese immigrant later discovered a cure for trachoma). Those who cleared the brief medical exam were then asked a set of twenty-nine questions, and their answers needed to match the information on the ship’s manifest. If it did, they were vetted, walking the massive Ellis Island staircase to a new life.

What happened to those who didn’t pass the inspection? Some were treated in hospital wards on Ellis Island until their condition improved, and ultimately 99% of those arriving on these shores during the Ellis Island era were admitted. Yet 120,000 people were sent back because of serious disease or disability, with an “X” chalked on their forehead for insanity or feeblemindedness, a “P” for pulmonary (lung) problems, and a “K” for hernias. It’s a fascinating history. I’m putting a visit to Ellis Island on my bucket list.

There’s no six-second medical exam for today’s immigrant. Instead, by the time they reach our international airports, potential immigrants with refugee status have completed a two-year process involving a United Nations agency, Homeland Security, the FBI, and the State Department. They’ve been fingerprinted, background checked, and had a medical evaluation Biodata and biometrics are checked and re-checked. Through this exhaustive process, the relatively open-armed policies of Ellis Island are no longer, for fewer than 1% of global refugees are admitted to the United States.

Our world has changed. Crystal Beach is now a gated community. Ellis Island is a museum. The dreaded button hook has been replaced by an iris scan. The ship’s manifest has morphed into a voluminous background check. The welcome mat is narrower.

Can America’s shrinking welcome mat still be extended? Can we welcome the Iranian grandmother who has never held her Ohio-born grandchildren, the Sudanese student approved for post-doctoral research in cancer prevention, the Syrian mothers and children fleeing the horrors of Aleppo? Will a world-wide welcome still glow from the beacon hand of the Mother of Exiles, waiting patiently in New York Harbor? Or are we willing to trade the blue chalk of the Ellis Island gatekeepers for the permanent marker of exclusion, boldly writing “not wanted” on the foreheads of “the other?” To be determined . . .